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Moving to stand right outside the door, she raised Shakespeare’s greatest work—in her opinion—over her shoulder. If words were dangerous, then thirty thousand of them should do the trick.

This was it. This was her time to defend her home. She drew in a deep breath and bounced up and down on the balls of her feet, finding the energy and courage she needed to confront the rascal. The rascal who was…humming? What sort of thief hummed while he thieved?

She stilled, the tightness in her chest loosening. Slowly, she peered around the edge of the door.

His back was turned to her as he rolled up his shirtsleeves and stared at something on a table covered with a white sheet. He propped his hands on his hips, his dark brown waistcoat spreading nicely across his shoulders. Then he peered up at the shelves and retrieved something from the table.

A tool? From where had that come?

As he moved toward the shelves, pressing what looked to be a chisel against the wood, her questions were answered.

Of course. This must be the woodcarver Father had mentioned wanting to hire. He was dressed far too nicely to be a common criminal, and he certainly wouldn’t have been humming or calling out earlier if he’d been trying to sneak about in silence.

Beatrice was right, Marianne let her imagination run amok too often. Slowly, she lowered her weapon. Rather, Hamlet. This woodcarver certainly had a fine set of shoulders. His strong jaw was reminiscent of—

She gasped. The man turned just enough for her to see his face, and recognition struck like a flash of fire in the darkness. This time, instead of hiding behind the wall, she raised her skirts, clutched her book in her hand, and darted down the corridor far away from the library.

It was him, the man from the cricket match. She was sure of it.

She pressed a hand to her brow to settle her spinning mind. After the cricket match, she’d realized how fortunate she’d been that Beatrice had not wished to pursue any of the men Marianne had spoken to. The men surely would have told her family of her odd behavior. Father would have been furious.

Father was going to be furious, for now that the woodcarver was in her home, the truth would most certainly come out.

Unless, of course, she could stop him from ever saying a word.

CHAPTER FIVE

Edward was settling into his new routine nicely. After four days, he’d finally found a way to receive a better night’s rest at the Blue Boar by avoiding the uneven lumps in the inn’s mattress. He’d also learned to leave the window open just a crack to ease the stale smell of the countless number of individuals who’d slept in the room before him.

Each day, after he completed his work, he would return to the village, have a drink at the inn, converse with a few local farmers, then spend the rest of the evening whittling, writing to Mother, or walking around the town. In the mornings, he frequented Mrs. Hill’s bakery, and rather than using his waning funds for a heartier morning meal, he spent the pennies buying discounted tarts, cakes, or biscuits and bringing them to Daffley Park to enjoy throughout his day of work.

He was also making steady progress in the library, having almost forgotten how greatly he preferred carving flowers, leaves, and curves rather than creating unembellished, old-fashioned furniture made of oak.

Among other things, he’d even learned to deal with the ghost of Daffley Park. Although, she was rather less like a ghost and more of an actual female with flesh and bones. A female who had taken to staring at him every day without fail at nine o’clock in the morning.

He had yet to catch a solid glimpse of her, but he’d seen the swish of her skirts as she darted away from the room every morning he tried to confront her for staring. She was no doubt a maid. Whether she was simply intrigued by what he was doing or was watching him for another reason, his patience was growing as thin as the metal of his smoothing chisel.

After receiving a tray of food one midday, Edward had asked the footman if he knew the maids for the east wing of the house.

“There’s one maid who cleans up here, sir,” he’d replied. “She does so on Mondays. Early morning, I believe.”

Edward had nodded, though his confusion had only grown, as well as his determination to confront the girl and end her stares once and for all. He was finished looking over his shoulder, having her gawk at him like he was a caged bear at the Royal Menagerie.

The next morning, he worked steadily, forcing his eyes to remain on the leaf-like design he was carving next. He took a bite of his pale Shrewsbury cake then continued with his work.

It was nearing nine o’clock. She would arrive any minute now.

Sure enough, only moments later, the girl’s footsteps stopped just outside the door. If he hadn’t come to expect her appearance, there was no way he would’ve heard her, her movements as quiet as a petal falling from its flower.

He drew in a steady breath. Every time he had called out to her or attempted a glance at where she stood half-hidden behind the doorframe, she had startled like a newborn fawn and swiftly fled.

This time, he’d attempt a different route.

Little by little, as he tapped his mallet against the chisel along the mahogany, she leaned farther around the door frame. He had to time this perfectly, wait for just the right moment or his plan would fail.

Finally, when half her shoulder was visible from the corner of his eye, he spoke. “Were you in need of something, miss?”

She gave an almost indiscernible gasp and pulled back.